A Portrait of Alfred F Jones
by Ennui-et-tea
Summary: Based around the novel by Oscar Wilde, although I am working more to the structure of the 2009 film. I won't give much away in this for those of you unfamiliar with the story; when a naïve young Alfred F. Jones arrives in London, he is swept into a social whirlwind by the charismatic Arthur Kirkland, who introduces Alfred to the hedonistic pleasures of the city.
1. Chapter 1

The moment Alfred set foot outside the vast cavern which was King's Cross station he was wonderfully overwhelmed by the bustle of the city, which in actual fact was relatively subdued that day but compared to the country side it was utterly mad – it was wonderfully mad, he thought as he gazed around at the horses and carriages, the restless pedestrians, the permanent fog of smoke from the trains, and the wide open space where the sky emerged above the buildings towering towards the heavens.

"Mr Jones, sir!" Alfred tugged his focus away from the scenery at the sound of his name being called and turned his attention to the gentleman in charge of his luggage. He hastily made his way to follow after his cases when suddenly he found himself accosted by a swarm of young boys.

"Come on sir!" sang one, boring into him with his large brown eyes and soot speckled face.

"Sir, have you got a penny?" called another as he looked up at him with equal imploration.

"Well I—" Alfred began, before being startled at the sudden presence of a small hand in his coat pocket. He turned abruptly to see another young man wrist-deep in his clothing, "Woah!" he exclaimed, equally as startled as the pickpocket who swiftly withdrew his arm with a cry of 'run!' and as quickly as they had appeared the boys disappeared, and the weighty clink of the coins previously in his pocket disappeared with them. A strange sort of grin spread across his face: his first experience of London was turning out to be an eventful one.

He turned to walk again and found himself chest to chest – or rather, chest to considerably over displayed chest – with a woman; she wore her hair in ill-kempt ringlets and a scarlet dress for what he rightly assumed was a scarlet woman. Before he had the chance to apologise she gave him a coy smile and looked him up and down before continuing on her way. Arthur grinned, for regardless of her profession she was rather pretty, but his smile quickly faded when he realised that he had no idea where his bags had gone off to.

Trying not to panic – for in truth those cases now contained his entire life –he thought about his situation logically, and began to make his way up the line of coaches in front of the station surveying the groomsmen to see if they looked like the man with his luggage, but to no avail. He crossed the road, carefully manoeuvring himself around the slow traffic, and managing to avoid the scruffy looking woman enthusiastically selling what he assumed was some sort of cooked pigeon.

Unfortunately in doing so he found himself once again accosted by a trio but this time not of pickpockets but very unfriendly looking men; they were men with coal for eyes and slits for mouths.

"Looking for someone?" one said, as they began to close in around him in a very disconcerting manner.

Alfred stepped back slightly, "Y-yeah, actually, I—"

"Mr Jones," The man who had been in charge of his luggage approached him; Alfred was thankful that he was apparently blurly enough in appearance to sway the trio into moving away to find another target, "If you please sir, we'll be departing now,"

"Sure thing," he replied cheerfully, glad to be out of whatever situation he had been in. He followed after the other man, gazing around at the new scenery as he did so.

"Oh, and Mr Jones?" Alfred brought his attention back for a moment, "Welcome to London,"

. . .

Alfred slept for most of the journey – having travelled all the way from America, covering the Atlantic ocean on an eight day voyage he was understandably tired. The reason that he had come to England was an interesting one.

Back in America, Alfred used to play concerts in the town hall every so often. He'd been taught to play from an early age so of course he was very good. People from all over town and sometimes even a few from elsewhere would flock to the town hall once a month; they would position themselves in the mediocre yet sturdy chairs, remove their hats for courtesy, and they would listen to him play, captivated by the music. It was wonderful to be able to hold people in such a way, to capture their attention entirely.

Usually afterwards one or two people would approach Alfred to complement him on his playing and then he'd wander home, perhaps stopping at an inn on the way for a drink. The sort of people who came up to him were just normal townspeople without exception, so of course Alfred was rather taken aback when he was approached by a clean-cut upper-class man all the way from England. The man, Arthur Kirkland, told Alfred very bluntly that he was wasting his talents on such, as he put it, mediocre clientele, and that if he were to come to London then he would have more success than he could possibly imagine, which Arthur said was probably winning first prize at a pageant against a man playing spoons and a swine in a straw hat.

"Oh no," Alfred said, shaking his head, "I could never afford to go all the way to England,"

"I expected as such," Arthur said, as he lit a cigarette and placed it in his mouth before throwing the match haphazardly over his shoulder, "I will pay for your travel and lodgings."

And that was that. It was an odd turn of events and it seemed even more strange that a complete strange was offering to pay so much money just to be able to listen to Alfred play every once in a while, but how could he possibly decline such an offer? This was definitely the sort of thing that happened only once in a lifetime.

. . .

The coach came to a halt, jolting Alfred out of his much needed sleep, although in truth it was more like a gentle nudge; he was sure that Arthur had planned everything down to the smallest detail, and a courteous coachman might be that detail.

"Here we are sir," the driver said, opening the door to allow him to step out, "Welcome home."

Alfred found himself staring up at the grandest and certainly the largest house that Alfred had ever seen. It was made out of a soft slightly beige stone and comprised of three stories, each of which was marked by several neatly arranged arched windows with carvings reminiscent of Ancient Greece framing them. The door was topped with a large triangular awning with two decorated pillars holding it up, and it was the door that would lead to a great change in Alfred's life. For this house was to be his and only his for the foreseeable future.

"I hope that everything will be to your liking,"

Somehow once he had stepped inside the house seemed even huger. It was charmingly furnished, full of dark wood and highlights of dark green, royal blue, gold and a burgundy so rich that you could practically taste it. If he was younger he would have ran around running his hands over every decadent surface, bounding up the grand staircase and throwing himself into the decadent soft chairs, but not only was he an adult but upon entering the house he had practically been accosted by the butler who apparently was attached to it – again, he suspected Arthur.

Said butler coughed just as Alfred was examining the fire place, catching his attention, "May I prepare some tea, sir?"

"Thank you, Victor," he replied – he wasn't used to having a butler around but through Arthur's correspondence it had been made sure that he knew how to speak and behave when one was around, as Arthur "doubted that he was used to the finer pleasures in life". As Victor turned on his polished heels and quietly exited, finally alone in the room he sunk down into what was possibly the most comfortable chair he'd ever sat in and ran his eyes over his lavish new surroundings.

An odd creaking came from above. Startled, he leaned forwards in his seat and looked up to see what he assumed was a maid looking over the balcony. Hurriedly she picked up her bucket and disappeared out of sight. He sat back in his chair: it was interesting to be treated as if he was better than everyone else, though at the same time he felt it was a bit lonely. The house was so large and with no one else living there apart from himself and the servants, who he could tell already wouldn't be up for much of a conversation. He expected he'd just have to get used to that expensive brand of solitude.

The novelty of the chair began to wear off and so he got up and ascended the gently curving staircase to examine the second floor of his new abode. Again, the maid scurried off upon seeing him; being still of a vaguely childish state of mind Alfred joked to himself that it was because if he looked at her too long she would turn to stone. As for Victor, perhaps his prerogative was to keep him sedated on tainted tea so that he could steal silver wear. Alfred grinned to himself; people spent so much money when they could indulge in such simple pleasures as making up fantasies.

The first thing he noticed when he scanned the room was that there was a large object in the centre of the balcony covered by a white sheet. For a moment he wondered if he was allowed to look underneath, but that was before he remembered that as it was his house he could do as he pleased, and with a feeling of satisfaction he folded back one side to reveal a set of piano keys. He couldn't think of anything better that could have been disguised by the dust cloth and, knowing that this was surely Arthur's doing, tentatively pressed down one or two keys individually before sitting down to play.


	2. Chapter 2

Two days later Alfred had settled in more or less. He was certainly feeling more comfortable in his new surroundings. He no longer startled at Victor silently slinking into the room he was in and suddenly speaking, and now the maid, who as it turned out went by the name of Charlotte, had taken to bobbing a quick curtsey before she made her rapid departure of whichever room Alfred had happened to venture into.

"Sir, a Lord Arthur Kirkland is here to see you," Victor announced from the doorway of the study which Alfred was sat in; he wasn't much of a reader but he'd been browsing the large bookshelves just to see if there was anything of interest.

_He's a Lord?_ Alfred wondered why he hadn't been informed of this sooner, "Thank you, Victor."

The butler nodded before leaving the room and returning with the man in question. Arthur – or was he supposed to call him Lord Arthur now? – briefly gave him a tired and vaguely amused glance before sitting in one of the two armchairs by the fireplace. Alfred assumed that he was supposed to join him and so took the other, mildly surprised that despite it being his house the other had walked in and sat down of his own accord. Still, he reasoned, he did pay for the house.

"Would you care for a drink, sir?" Victor offered from his default position in front of the doorway.

"No-no, I shan't be staying for long," Arthur said dismissively.

Victor turned his attention to Alfred, "Sir?"

He shook his head, "No thanks."

The butler nodded before departing.

Alfred wasn't sure how to begin the conversation having been thrown off by the grand title so he decided to wait for the other to speak and let the silence hang in the air; it danced with dust motes in the sunlight.

"I have arranged for you to play at Wilton's Music Hall tomorrow evening," Arthur said by way of introduction.

"Wilton's?" Alfred was shocked that he would be playing somewhere so grand so soon.

"Yes. Think of it as an upscale barn dance," Arthur said, and though he kept a straight face the amusement he got from making quips about the contrast in cultures was visible in his eyes.

"So, what do I do?" he felt like an idiot for asking but was too preoccupied with the enormous amount of pressure he was under to make a good first impression to consider the impression he was currently making on Arthur.

"You wear a suit, you play the piano, then you spend the remainder of the night chatting to utter morons," he stood up suddenly, "I'm afraid I must be going,"

"Oh, okay," Alfred said dazedly, also standing up as it was customary after all.

"I shall see you at around eight o'clock."

"Around?" Surely there must be a set time? He was performing after all.

"Punctuality is the thief of time," Arthur said as he walked into the hallway and took his hat and coat from Victor who must have been standing there the whole time, "I myself am always late on principal."

"Huh…" Alfred considered this. It seemed logical, did it not? As he was new in London perhaps it would be a good idea to follow the example set to him, and being a Lord as well as a naturally commanding man what better example to follow than that set by Arthur.

Arthur set his hat on his head and nodded, "Good day."

Victor had already opened the door and so he left smoothly, the butler closing it shut behind him. Alfred had begun to suspect that he had some sort of sixth sense as to people's comings and goings, or perhaps it was simply a skill that all men of his profession possessed. Regardless, it was still mildly disconcerting the way he was always primed for any situation. Perhaps if a burglar walked in he would already be positioned behind the door with a frying pan or something of the likes.

Alfred stood in the hallway frowning slightly at the prospect of going to the event Arthur had organised, "Do I even have a suit?" he thought aloud.

"I shall see to it at once, sir."

He watched Victor stride up the stairs purposefully yet somehow in near silence, which was quite a feat as Alfred had yet to scale them without making a complete racket. Honestly Alfred could have easily looked through his clothes himself, and he wasn't really asking that anyone else would do it for him, but at least Victor wouldn't end up throwing shirts and trousers across the room as he searched.

. . .

The moment Alfred had set foot inside Wilton's he had already felt the preying eyes of the upper classes. Finely dressed women and formally dressed men stood in clusters of varying combination, being slowly choked by their corsets and bowties as they sipped from champagne flutes and talked nonsense. In a matter of minutes they would be seated in what he imagined was the largest hall he'd ever seen in his life, and he would be the centre of attention.

Confused as to what exactly he was supposed to be doing Alfred approached one of the doormen, "Excuse me, my name is Alfred F. Jones – I'm supposed to be playing here tonight?"

It was obvious that the man was surprised by his accent; he doubted many non-British people came to things like this, "When it is time for you to play your host, Lord Arthur Kirkland," he said the name as if it was synonymous to 'almighty God', "Will announce it. You are then to make your way to the stage and ascend the stairs to you left; both before and after your performance you must take an obligatory bow," Alfred felt that he was being patronized but brushed it off, "Then following your final bow you must descend the stairs to the right of the stage and wait."

Alfred nodded, "Got it – thanks."

"Oh dear me, no," A large balding man with mutton chop side burns paused briefly as he entered the venue, looking him up and down like some sort of cow at a country fair, "Shabby!"

Puzzled Alfred looked down at himself – he looked fine as far as he was concerned. It was the best suit he had, but he'd had it since he stopped growing so unsurprisingly something or rather must have changed in fashion. He mentally shrugged and scoped out the room but Arthur was nowhere to be seen.

Then all of a sudden he appeared out of nowhere onto the stage. There was an immediate hush at his sudden presence, although he hadn't needed to say a word; he was naturally commanding.

"Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you a great contradiction to the slack-jawed imbeciles we view all Americans to be – well perhaps not quite a contradiction," This earned a laugh from the crowd, although it was unsure as to whether they actually found him funny or just felt obligated to laugh due to his status, "Alfred F. Jones."

Somehow it seemed that Arthur knew exactly where he was as he made direct eye-contact with Alfred from all the way across the room in a manner that seemed to say "_go on: show them"_ at the same time as warning him profusely not to mess this up.

The crowd turned in the direction of Arthur's gaze and immediately picked Alfred out from the others, politely applauding as Alfred carefully made his way through the crowd and ascended the steps specifically to the left.

He wasn't really sure what to do under the gaze of so many eloquent pairs of eyes and so he followed to doorman's instructions exactly: he bowed, which caused the audience to cease their applause in anticipation, and then he sat down at the piano and began to play. It then became apparent to him that he probably should have decided which songs he was going to play before hand, but luckily his hands were a few steps ahead of his thoughts and he unconsciously began to play Chopin.

. . .

After he had finished playing the doorman's voice returned to his head again: Alfred bowed, went down the stairs to the right of the stage, and waited at the bottom, albeit feeling more like a dog tied up outside a shop than he'd like to. The feeling didn't last too long though as almost immediately he was approached by several small groups of women and men, all talking at once so he could only smile and nod politely as soon as he'd established the general gist of what they said was that they enjoyed his playing. There was an immediate change in atmosphere as soon as Arthur came over, in that they stopped jabbering and took it in turns to pay both Alfred and Arthur complements.

There was champagne and a lot of small talk – the sort of conversation where you don't really need to listen to know how to respond. It seemed to be a very English thing to discuss detached subjects such as fashion and the weather for extended periods of time, but despite the general lack of personality he got from people Alfred much to his surprise still enjoyed himself. He was certainly adapting well to England, to the point where everyone seemed to have forgotten that he was American. Well, everyone except for Arthur who brought up Alfred's roots almost incessantly and with an equal ammount of amusment every time, but somehow it seemed that he was exempt from everyone else. Yes, Arthur truely was a man of his own stature.


	3. Chapter 3

"It really was spectacular, Alfred," A woman in a feathered hat simpered, clutching a programme to her chest as her two female friends nodded and offered words of agreement.

"Thank you, you're too kind," he replied modestly.

In truth, it wasn't just his musical talents that had caused a stir in high society. Although Alfred had yet to realise it himself, he was in fact rather attractive, if one was to replace the word rather with something like incredibly or devastatingly. In England he was also considered to be incredibly exotic, and if most of the women who came to see him had their way, or rather one, then he would be sporting a ring on his left hand in a flash. Of course Alfred had no idea of any of this and was just happy that everyone was so friendly, even if it was quite a detached sort of friendliness.

"They really ought to feature you more often,"

"I agree," Came a voice from behind the women, who parted to welcome the gentleman into the circle.

"Oh, this is someone you simply must meet. This is one of our finest artists, Kiku Honda,"

"Please, a humble student of beauty," Despite the dramatic differences in culture Kiku had been in England long enough that he had taught himself to respond and use phrasing in a way which those he was surrounded by found appealing, otherwise he would have simply nodded. The key, it seemed, was to be modest about yourself and overly complementary to others.

"Would you like to see?" he asked, before holding out his latest sketch for the women to compare to Alfred.

"Oh that's marvellous,"

"There's really quite a likeness,"

In truth Kiku had been drawing Alfred for quite a while now. Due to his inconspicuously calm demeanour he could easily sit amongst the doting audience with a sketchbook and a stick of charcoal. He used to sit in on concerts and pick out members of the audience to capture on paper as they wore expressions of pure captivation at the music produced on stage. Yet since the first time Alfred ascended the steps to sit at the piano Kiku had found himself unable to find a better muse, and so he would draw no one but Alfred when he was playing. Now he had quite a collection of images and could practically draw him from memory. Kiku assumed that there was something different about American genetics that made him stand out so strikingly from the others.

"You must let him paint you," The feathered woman said to Alfred, who shrugged cheerfully.

"Why not?"

. . .

The studio was filled with the soft, heavenly odour of sakura blossom, mingling in the air with the slightly heady smell of paint. The room itself was quite simple; the walls were white and there was very little in the way of furnishings, the only contradiction to this being the numerous sketches and canvases that skirted around the sides of the room and covered the single table in the centre. A screen door opened out into the garden, allowing birdsong and the gentle hum of bees to enter; the dim roar of London was like the bourdon note of a distant organ.

"It is your best work, Kiku, the best thing you have ever done," said Arthur languidly, "You must certainly send it next year to the Grosvenor."

"We shall see." He answered placidly, tilting his head in that odd way of his.

Arthur raised his eyebrows and looked at him in amazement through the thin blue wreaths of smoke that curled up from his heavy, opium-tainted cigarette. He had known Kiku since he had first come to London and knew that he was partial to being distinctly indirect in his refusals, "Not send it anywhere? My dear fellow, why?"

"I expect you will laugh at me," he replied, "But I really cannot exhibit it. I have put too much of myself into it."

Arthur stretched himself out on the divan and laughed, "What odd chaps you painters are!"

"Yes, I knew you would; but it is true."

He looked from the picture and back again to the man before him, "Upon my word, Kiku, I didn't know you were so vain; I really can't see any resemblance between you."

"I do not think we understand one another, Arthur," answered the artist, "Of course I am not like him. I know that. Indeed, I should be sorry to look like him.

Arthur shrugged, "I shouldn't be."

"I am telling you the truth. There is a fatality about all physical and intellectual distinction. It is better not to be different. The ugly and the stupid are better off in this world – your rank and wealth, Arthur; my intellect, my art, whatever it's worth; Alfred Jones' good looks – we shall all suffer terribly for what the Gods have given us."

Arthur gave him a crisp half-smile, "To find ugly meanings in such beautiful things is to be corrupt without being charming, Kiku."

The two young men went out into the garden together and ensconced themselves on a long bamboo seat that stood in the shade of a tall laurel bush. The sunlight slipped over the polished leaves. In the grass, white daisies were tremulous.

After a pause, Arthur pulled out his watch.

"I am afraid I must be going, Kiku," he murmured, "and before I go, I insist on your answering a question I put to you some time ago."

"What is that?"

"You know quite well."

"I do not, Arthur."

"I want to know the real reason."

"For what?"

"Why you will not exhibit Alfred's painting."

"I told you."

It was apparent from the look in his eye that Arthur was becoming mildly irritated, "No. You said that it is because there is too much of yourself in it. Not only is that not a valid reason, it is also childish."

"Arthur," said Kiku, looking him straight in the face, "every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter. It is not he who is revealed by the painter; it is rather the painter who reveals himself on the canvas."

Arthur raised an eyebrow, "And?"

"The reason I will not exhibit this picture is that I am afraid that I have shown in it the secret of my own soul." Kiku said solemnly.

He laughed, "And what is that? Oh Kiku, I'm all expectations!"

"I am afraid you will hardly understand it. Perhaps you would hardly believe it."

There was a pause.

"I am quite sure I shall understand it," he replied, "and as for believing things, I can believe anything, provided that it is quite incredible." Arthur smiled.

The wind shook some blossoms from the trees, and in the sudden near-silence of nature Arthur felt as if he could hear Kiku Honda's heart beating, and wondered what was coming.

"The story is simply this," said the painter after some time. "A few weeks ago I went to Wilton's. You know we poor artists have to show ourselves in society from time to time, just to remind the public that we are not savages.

"After the playing had ended I had been in the room for ten minutes talking dowagers and academicians, when I became conscious that someone was looking at me. I glanced around and saw Alfred Jones for the first time. When our eyes met, I felt that I was growing pale.

"I knew that I had come face to face with someone who was so fascinating that, if I allowed it to do so, it would absorb my whole nature, my whole soul, my very art itself. I did not want any external influence in my life. You know yourself, Arthur, how independent I am by nature. I grew afraid and turned to leave the room. It was not conscience that made me do so: it was a sort of cowardice."

"Conscience and cowardice are really the same things, Kiku. Conscience is the trade-name of the firm. That is all."

"I do not believe that, Arthur, and I do not believe you do either."

Arthur raised his eyebrows, but continued regardless, "Well, he certainly seems to be making quite the impression. An earnest young man with a beautiful nature, according to my aunt – and you know of course how cynical she can be. That sort of talk causes one to picture some freckled country oaf in ghastly dress," he grinned, "And of course that is only half right."

"Mr. Alfred Jones is in the studio, sir," said the butler, coming into the garden.

The painter turned to his servant, who stood blinking in the sunlight, "Ask Mr. Jones to wait, Parker: I shall be in in a few moments."

The man bowed and went up the walk.

Arthur looked at the other expectantly.

Kiku sighed and turned to face him, "Alfred F. Jones is my dearest friend. Your aunt was quite right in what she said of him. Don't spoil him. Don't try to influence him. Your influence would be bad," His face was a picture of distain.

"What nonsense you talk!" said Arthur, smiling, and taking Kiku by the arm - something which was practically taboo to the artist - he practically led him into the house. The other did not resist out of decorum, but a worrying feeling overcame him as if he was about to let something terrible happen.


	4. Chapter 4

The two entered to see Alfred sitting at Kiku's prized white piano with his back to them, flicking through a music book, "Can I borrow these, Kiku?" he asked without looking around, "I want to learn them for the performances next week."

"That depends on how you sit today, Alfred," Kiku replied; Arthur was surprised not to have heard him recite his usual passive response of 'we shall see'.

"I'm tired of sitting – I mean, I don't think I even want a life-sized portrait of myself," Alfred said with a grin, swinging around on the stool childishly. His grin faded upon realising that Kiku was not alone and he faltered for a moment, a faint blush colouring his cheeks, "Sorry, I didn't know you had anyone with you."

Arthur waved a hand in dismissal before seating himself on the divan and opening his cigarette-case, "Think nothing of it,"

"I have just been telling Arthur what a capital sitter you were," Kiku said, a hint of amusement to his tone, although one could not be sure that he was intentionally being ironic.

"Aren't you tired of looking at me yet?"

"Certainly not," Kiku replied, "The more I look," He made a small, delicate stroke which slightly changed the expression of the Alfred in the painting to one more like that that he wore in person, "The more I see."

"Surely you must be nearly done?"

Arthur wondered why it was taking so long for the painting to be completed – he'd seen Kiku complete many a portrait before this one and none of them had taken nearly as long. Perhaps it was Alfred, he thought as he glanced over to him; yes, he was certainly wonderfully handsome, with his finely curved scarlet lips, his frank blue eyes, his crisp gold hair. There was something in his face that made one trust him at once. All the candour of youth was there, as well as all youth's passionate purity. One felt that he had kept himself unspotted from the world. It was no wonder Kiku practically worshipped him.

He got up from the deviant and began to walk behind the painter, before he was stopped with a warning look – it did not stop him because of what it was but rather because of whose face it was on, "I want to see it."

Alfred chuckled, "He won't even let me take a look."

"You may see it when it is finished."

Arthur continued to chat to Alfred – although it was generally felt that chat was too light-hearted a term for the sort of things that Arthur said in conversation – and it became increasingly difficult for Kiku to paint when his muse was moving about quite so much.

"I mean," Alfred had begun to talk with his hands a little, ever increasing the difficulty in capturing him in a painting, "I've been in London two weeks now and the only people I've met are the ones who come up to me after concerts,"

"You have met me," Kiku said suddenly, despite being silent until that moment.

"Oh, I didn't mean—"

"These parties are terribly dull, Alfred. You will not be missing anything," He replied stoically as he captured the way the light reflected off the white of the other's eye on canvas.

"I know, it's just..." he shrugged with a light grin, "I thought it might be fun."

"Don't squander your golden days listening to the tedious, trying to improve the hopeless failure, giving away your life to the ignorant – realise your youth while you still have it!" Arthur said, waving his smoking hand as he spoke so that the scent of tobacco and opium sprawled across the room.

"Arthur, why don't you take a walk while I work up the background?" Kiku said diplomatically, eager to get back to work.

"You don't need Alfred for that," he said, getting up from the divan and facing Alfred, "Let's both take a break."

Kiku put down his brush, "Perhaps we should all get some air."

"Yes, and I know just the place."

. . .

As the coach travelled Alfred watched as the exterior gradually changed from the charming, well-to-do side of London that he had grown accustomed to: grubby pedestrians slunk like rats through the street, pilfering and pillaging as they went; the putrid stench of poverty hung in the air like fog; the houses loomed over them as if they would swallow the sky. The further they penetrated into this Whitechapel, the more his heart sank, yet he was adamant that it couldn't possibly be as bad as it looked if someone like Arthur would venture there.

Soon it got to a point where it was impossible for the coachman to continue due to gradual decrease in the width of the road, if it could be called that now, and so the three got out and began to walk.

Without the barrier of the carriage between Alfred and the sullen streets, he felt as if he'd been thrown into some sort of bizarre dystopia. Everywhere he looked there was some sort of deviation: a bloated, red-faced man hacked at a butchered animal which based on his appearance he couldn't possibly have obtained legally, his associate threatening the clientele who protested that the meat was five days old and not worth what they asked for; through a doorway lacking a door he saw a girl no older than ten struggling to bathe her younger siblings who squirmed in the small steel tub; upstairs a couple screeched at each other, the sounds of smashing and thumping almost tangible. He stopped walking, overcome by so many things. The crashing. The shouting. The little girl…

"Alfred," Kiku's voice pulled him away from his thoughts.

"Oh, sorry," he said dazedly, as he hurried to catch up.

"You can see why some are so eager to help Whitechapel,"

Arthur scoffed at the artist's notion.

"You don't think we should try and help?" Alfred asked, the scene behind him engraved in his mind.

"I've no desire to change anything in England, except the weather," Arthur said, skilfully avoiding a gentleman trying to sell him this and that.

They came to an archway which opened out to an inn, and before they'd even set foot inside Alfred could hear the sound of a fiddler playing, people laughing, drinking, and dancing. His spirits lifted as they entered the establishment to see that it was just as he'd imagined from the outside, albeit a little more deviant. People paired up and danced gaily to the play of the fiddler, who was stood on a table with a woman dancing on the next. Groups of men clinked their glasses together in celebration of this and that, or simply in celebration of being alive. At tables men sat with women draped across their laps, all laughing endlessly at the same joke. Alfred was surprised to find that he recognised several of these men.

"Welcome to my little hellfire club,"

They sat down at a table in the corner, and

"'Ere you are, gents," A barkeep said as she set down three glasses roughly on the table.

Kiku and Alfred stared at the drinks that had been set before them blankly; Arthur picked up his glass and drank it in one. In turn Alfred picked up his own, studying the contents for a second. As far as he could tell it was just whiskey. He raised it to his lips.

"No, don't," Kiku said with a slight warning tone before Alfred threw the liquor down his throat. It burned the back of his mouth and made his tongue tingle, and before he could control the impulse the bitter liquid sprayed out of his mouth, showering the table – the other dodged away from the worst of it.

Arthur looked on in amusement as Alfred struggled to come back from a fit of coughing and spluttering.

"Barkeep!" he said, signalling for more glasses to be brought to the table.

Alfred, now mildly taken aback by his reaction to the drink and taking it to mean more that what it did—which was that as he didn't drink very much very often a half-pint of such concentrated alcohol was by no means the optimum choice for himself—looked around once more, and began to unpick the seams of the inner workings of the inn. He noticed the way most of the women had their skirts hiked up far higher than was acceptable, and that if he wasn't careful about how he angled himself he could see right up one girl's dress as she kicked her legs out periodically whilst dancing atop the table. He noticed the creeping hands of gentlemen, the sordid remarks they exchanged with women who Alfred now realised must be a different sort of woman than he'd thought them to be at first.

"There's no shame in pleasure, Mr. Jones," Arthur said, as if reading his mind, "You see man just wants to be happy, but society wants him to be good, and when he's good, Man is rarely happy. But when he's happy, he's always good."

These unusual statements which Arthur threw his way felt like riddles for Alfred to decipher, as if by understanding the meaning of the man's needlessly lengthy ways of saying something simple it would somehow make him into a better quality of human being.

"And you want to be good, don't you? And happy," He said cogently as he reached for his drink.

Despite the other's way with words persuading him greatly Alfred still felt uneasy as he glanced around the tavern and caught sight of one of the many harlots strewn about the place looking at him; he unintentionally met her eyes and she winked, a honey-sweet smile playing at her face, "Isn't there a price to pay for that sort of thing?" he said uncertainly, quickly looking away from her and back to Arthur.

He glanced at the woman who'd just winked at Alfred, "Oh she's quite affordable," he said casually, causing Kiku to choke on his drink a little.

Alfred pressed on regardless as he noticed the woman stand up and start walking over to the table, "What I was asking about was the affect on–" And then she was right beside him, blocking Arthur from his view, and he had no idea where to look.

"Will you buy a lady a drink?" she said coyly, her voice like silk.

"On– on the–" The words caught in Alfred's throat as he tried to ignore the harlot before him and produce a coherent sentence at the same time.

"Oh what?" Arthur said, sounding irritated but looking slightly amused.

"Well, on the soul," he managed, sounding quite solemn.

"One's soul?" he said it as if Alfred has queried as to whether Saint Nickolas would still bring him yuletide gifts if he partook in such things, and leant forward with a gleam in his eye that Alfred couldn't quite decipher; it was somewhere between amusement, disgust, and malevolence, "This is my church," He picked up his drink and drank it in one before placing it down hard onto the table, "With this dram, right now, I nail my soul to the Devil's altar."

"You'll never meet a more eloquent philosopher of pure folly," Kiku said, sounding slightly weary. Arthur grinned at this, which made him mildly irritated, which was just about as irritated as he could stand to be, and he stood up, "It is time to show you what we've made,"

Alfred's eyes lit up, "Really? I can see the painting?"

Arthur scowled at Kiku's sudden move to leave and had already refilled Alfred's glass as he spoke his last sentence, "The boy hasn't even finished his gin," he said as he placed the bottle down so that Kiku could clearly see that he'd just refilled the drink: a subtle signal that the painter was overstepping his bounds, "Go and fiddle with the background; we'll be along shortly."

Of course Kiku knew not to take the matter any further, and gave a very small bow to Arthur before turning to leave. Alfred watched him go, purely because he had nothing else to do other than drink – and he was understandably disinclined to try another drop of the stuff any time in the near future – when yet another woman caught his eye. She had a lovely face, shoulder-length blond hair and blue eyes

Feeling mildly annoyed with himself, he quickly scanned the rest of the group she was standing with and observed her for a little while before coming to the pleasant conclusion that she was not another strumpet. He grinned to himself.

"Perhaps you should go and speak to her," Arthur said, in a way which made 'perhaps' redundant.

Alfred became slightly flustered at the very idea and made an attempt to backtrack, "Oh, I– I didn't realise that she—"

"Go."

There was an odd sort of feeling in the air as Arthur continued to fix Alfred with his gaze, as if there were things passing between the two that had been compacted into a single word and now yet again Alfred was left to decipher the cryptic message which was presented to him. He blinked as Arthur stared at him for what felt like eternity but it was really only a matter of seconds. The intensity of his expression made Alfred wonder whether perhaps he was being set up somehow.

Still, he barely considered it before breaking eyecontact and glancing at the girl before shaking his head and looking at the table, "I wouldn't know where to—"

Once again Arthur cut him off, "You see, I envy you Alfred."

"Me?" He said, visibly taken aback, "Why?"

"Everything's possible for you because you have the only two things worth having. Youth..." he paused, his eyeline not even wavering from the other as if he was somehow transfixed, "And beauty."

Alfred shifted, no longer able to look him in the eye; Arthur had been looking at him as if he was some sort of exotic animal that he wanted to shoot in the head, out of kindness to the poor creature, and have mounted on his wall. He hastily glanced at the girl again in an attempt to hide his discomfort, but just as he looked at her she began walking away with one of the men she had previously been standing with.

"The moment's lost," Arthur said suddenly, back to his usual blunt way of speaking, and he picked up his drink once more.

Alfred turned back around in his chair feeling a little disheartened, but determined not to let Arthur know this, and so he shrugged in what he hoped was a nonchalant manner, "That was probably her husband," he said, as if to justify not having the courage to go over to her; he said it more for himself than for Arthur.

"Oh yes, very sensible," Arthur said, though his tone was so dripping with solemnity that Alfred knew that he was mocking him. Suddenly he leant forward and fixed him with a look in his eyes of such intensity that if it wasn't for his coherence it would have made him appear a complete lunatic, "People die of common sense, Alfred, one lost moment at a time. Life is a moment, there's no hereafter," Alfred could do nothing to get away from that look in his eyes, his words: words which cut through him far more easily than he'd like yet which he consciously absorbed as if they were what was keeping him alive, "So make it burn, always, with the hardest flame."

And Alfred was left with those words ringing in his head for many days to come.


End file.
